


A True Love

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 03:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Molly deals with Sherlock's "death".





	A True Love

_Once, I knew a true love_

_It’s been three years since he’s gone_

_And if I could get that feeling back_

_I’d give up everything I own..._

There were days when she wore the grief like a coat of lead, restricting, confining, making the smallest movements a monumental effort. On bright sunny days it was as if the light itself was mocking her, precisely pointing out all the little joys of ordinary lives that were denied her.

Was he alive? She had no way of knowing. That was hard enough, the not knowing. But the worst was just...absence. The loss of simply having him there, his _presence_ in her life, whether she saw him or not; the small reassurances that he was real, that he _existed_.

Sheknewwhatpeoplethought _. Poor Molly, pining away after a man who couldn’t - wouldn’t - ever see her as anything more than a convenience, someone to use to get what he wanted. Pitiful Molly, wasting her life that way. Mousey Molly, putting up with that abysmal behavior because she thought it would get him to notice her…_

They knew nothing. They had no clue what it was really about. 

She would do anything for him. Had risked everything for him. And they thought it was about a _crush_?!

*****

“Why do you put up with him? Why do you tolerate that kind of behavior?” 

She wasn’t the only one who got those questions. John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft - they all experienced the consequences of his strange behavior, his rudeness, his idiosyncratic life. They all received the benefits of it, which seemed to outweigh the negatives. 

But for her...it was more. 

It didn’t matter if he would never see her as anything more than a convenience, someone to use for his own ends. What he had given her was far more important than anything she could ever do for him. 

He didn’t need her. He could have gotten what he wanted in a hundred different ways. He had the influence, could charm the wings off a butterfly if he wanted. He had connections. He knew where to push, how to use, what to do or say to anyone, not just her. She was inconsequential where his “needs” were concerned. No matter how many people he offended, how many toes he stepped on, there was always a way through for him. She didn’t count. 

So why? Why did he come to her? She wasn’t necessary for his plans. He had so many other avenues, so many other means to his ends. 

Somehow she was important, meaningful to him. As important and meaningful as he was to her.

Because in the end, he had quite simply, without reason, given her life to her. 

Those final moments, after the tearful plea for help, after the plans had been made, after it was all put in place, everything became more clear to her than ever. 

*****

_“Are you coming back?”_

_“I...don’t know. If it’s possible, I will.”_

_Tears, a tentative touch on his hand._

_“Please, Sherlock. Please come back. Please be safe.” A mere whisper: “You have to. Promise me.”_

_A half smile, pressure of his other hand on hers._

_“I’ll do my best, Molly.”_

_And she knew he would. He would do his best._

_It wasn’t very reassuring. He was setting out to do the impossible - alone. She believed in him. If anyone could do it, he could. He would._

_But she would grieve the loss of him, for as long as he was gone, as deeply as if he had died._

*****

Three years. One thousand ninety six days, some hours, some minutes. An eternity.

Her life, such as it was without him in it, plodded on. She learned to live and move wearing the leaden coat. She even managed to contrive some semblance of normalcy, with friends, colleagues, a decent man she could close her eyes and pretend with.

It should have been enough. Once upon a time, it would have been. 

Months after it had all died down, after the newspapers and telly had lost interest in the story and moved on to all the insipid trivia mixed with tragedy that passed for news…

A body on the table, an unusual death. Curious. There was a time when it would have been interesting, possibly amusing in a very dark way. Greg stood beside her, staring at the corpse, his hand over his mouth - trying not to grin. 

In a tone that might have passed as wistful from anyone else, “He would have loved this one.”

After Greg left, she crouched in a corner of the room across from the body and wept for an hour, for herself, for him...for all of them.

*****

She tried not to hope. She tried not to picture all the hundreds, thousands of ways he could fail, that would keep him from ever coming back. She shoved away the images of injury, death, all the myriad ways he could be suffering. She had the barest inkling of the enormous task he’d undertaken. She couldn’t even try to understand it. 

Life, hateful, ugly thing, keeps on. The sun keeps shining, the rains keep coming, the stupid birds sing, dogs bark, cats hiss, people...live. One foot is put in front of the other, and life happens.

Eventually even the blade twisting in the heart becomes duller, or else we simply get used to the pain of it. 

We move on.

*****

_“A boyfriend? Is that what you think I want?”_

_“I think you…”_

_She pushed on, riding over his words._

_“That’s why you think I do this? Because of something so...because I want a_ boyfriend _?!” Her voice was shrill with fury._

_She turned away, paced as far as the confines of her office would allow._

_Turned back to him, shaking, voice low, under control._

_“I do this because it’s important, dammit. Because helping you...because it makes_ me _important. It makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. Because you give me something bigger than myself to think about. That’s what makes me happy. That’s what keeps me from telling you to piss off and get out of my life! You arrogant prick! You think you’re so special? Well you are, you_ are _special, what you_ do _is special, it’s more important than anything. When you come to me for this and that, you think you have to manipulate me and flatter me to get what you want...I know what you’re doing. But it doesn’t matter, Sherlock, it doesn’t matter at all. I’d do whatever you want, give you whatever you want because it makes me important! Not to you, or anyone else, but to_ me _! It makes me part of something good and true and bigger than anyone can understand.”_

_She was crying now and she didn’t care, made no effort to wipe away the tears. She knew he was shocked, she could see it in his face. She also knew he understood, finally, she could see that in his eyes too. He understood._

_He blew out a breath, pulled himself up straight._

_“Okay,” he said. “I get it.”_

_He strode to the door, paused._

_“Thank you.” Whispered over his shoulder. Then he was gone._

_They never talked about it again. But afterward, things were different._

_*****_

The face in the locker room mirror was bruised, cut. Tired. There were lines that hadn’t been there before, that a normal three years couldn’t account for. 

The eyes were the same. 

She was too shocked to react much at first. Maybe she had slipped back in time and was hallucinating in her pain and grief. Maybe she had slipped in her vigilance, at keeping it all under wraps and seeing his face in the mirror was the result; after all this time, it had simply built up and burst free…

But he was real. He was there. 

She could take off the lead coat, and breathe again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am aware that in the BBC series, Sherlock was only gone for two years. I chose to use the ACD version in which Sherlock was actually gone for three years. It suited this story better.


End file.
